


Penumbra

by Ariasune



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amongst other things, penumbra is an area of the brain that is damaged, but not yet dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wane

**Author's Note:**

> **Bolded Malik** refers to Dark Malik, however, it can be read ambiguously.

Penumbra is latin, but Malik does not speak latin. Instead, he speaks quickly, and sharply, cutting his mouth on the words: "You're not real," It is cruel, like a mother tongue, with blood soaking in the gums, but Malik's lips form a thin, unbroken line. He watches  **Malik** , with a glare that flashes crescent-white at his eyes. The word is sanpaku, and it is foreign in both their mouths.

 **Malik** grins winningly back at Malik,  **his** teeth sentry-straight in his mouth, "That is not very nice," **He** can still taste the blood of Malik's statement - threat, even - and **he** grimaces, "I know I'm real."

And Malik is unimpressed, eyebrows reaching up towards his hairline, "I don't."

"You don't know I'm real,"  **Malik** circles Malik, a creaky, vulture figure in the cloak. It drags on the floor, pulls on **his** heels, and **he** reaches down to grip it. Fists **his** hands in the fabric, and sneers at Malik, "But then you don't know _shit."_

Malik looks at **him** , like **Malik's**  just spat at Malik's feet, before sighing, "I don't have time for this," He tilts his head back, and  **Malik** watches his throat arch with the movement, traces where **he** thinks the vein lies. When Malik speaks again, **Malik's** gaze snaps, and **he** jerks his head to look at Malik.

"I didn't catch that," **He** says insolently, but oh so sincerely.

"I destroyed you," Malik waves a hand in boredom, "Stop troubling me - you're like a dog that never sleeps - barking at nothing."

There is an eruption of anger in  **Malik** , and **he** lets it travel through **his** throat, pours it out in a thick snarl, "I am not nothing!"

"As shadows go," Malik tells **him** , "You've been cast  _thin_."

"I am not nothing,"  **Malik** repeats hotly, "I am real, I am- I am!" **He** can feel **his** eyes in Malik's face, but they are **his** eyes. **He** reaches up, streaks **his** fingernails down his face, and feels the skin scream, opens **his** mouth wide and swallows up **his** words, "I will never be nothing!"

But where  **Malik** burns, Malik scorches and flays, and there is a wrinkle at the corner of his nose. Something dismissive, "After all these years, aren't you tired of this?" He asks, "Don't you want to lay down and shut up?" He looks to the side, "Don't you get bored of this conversation?" And then he's looking at  **Malik** again, right down to the bone, burning and burning, "Don't you get bored of yourself?"

Cruelty is their native tongue, and they don't bite it, so  **Malik** snaps back, "You're spoilt."

"I'm  _wounded_ ," Malik rolls his white-flash eyes.

"You're  _selfish_. You're weak. You're lucky," The last makes Malik take a step backwards, and  **Malik** steps into the space left behind, slides into the hollows, "I was the best thing that ever happened to you," **He** carves into Malik, grabs him by the wrists and digs **his** nails in, "I will always be the best  _thing_ in your life. You should be grateful, you should be  _quiet_."

Malik tips his head, pulse a beacon in the curve of his neck. Even under the sunlit colour of the gold,  **Malik** can trace each beat. There is a pulsar, red and rich in Malik's throat, and  **Malik** leans in to bite it. Tears a purple sunset bruise into the skin; a mottled thing that is so satisfying to see. But there is a distance in Malik's eyes - almost a holy thing, with  **Malik's** saliva rosetted on Malik's skin.

Shoving Malik away from **him** ,  **Malik** stares off into the cool darkness of their thoughts, "You should thank me-" **He** chokes out, like blood is filling **his** mouth, licking at **his** teeth and leeching at **his** voice, "You should thank me for what I've done for you."

Quietly, Malik regards **him**. Cool, cool in the gaze, and cool in the voice: "I can't."

 **Malik** wakes then- with a sweat burning on **his** skin, and a shudder panting in **his** chest. It is abruptly silent, to the point of painful, and he clutches **his** arms around himself, hold tightening with a low, vibrant yowl. It fills the room, and blots out the silence, like blood rising in the lungs. Gasping,  **Malik** reaches for the nearest item - tauk? tauk it is - and hugs it to **his** chest, where it digs in. Calming, **he** gathers the rest up in **his** hands, holds them up to **himself** like an offering, and watches them gleam, like **he's** drowned the sun itself.


	2. Crescent

**Malik's** gaze lingers on the items - strewn around **his** bed, like a careless collection - and one by one, **he** picks them up and holds them between **his** fingers. The puzzle is cold to touch, the tauk awkward within **his** palms, and the ring's spines hiss when they move. As always, the rod is the only thing that ever settles in **his** hands, and **he** slides his grip down the length of it, before pulling the blade from its hollow. **He** studies the point, testing it on the bridge of **his** thumb, and sucks a breath in. Satisfied, **he** sheathes the athame, and finally sets it with the others, scooping the items into a messy pile.

 **He** knows there are three more out there, but **he** has not seen them, not even heard a whisper of them since Pegasus lost the eye. If they exist, they don't exist in **his** life.

Besides,  **Malik** has four items! Who can question **him**? Never mind, **he** has never mastered the puzzle, and all the ring offers **him** is strength, denying **him** the cunning of its former owner. Still, by far, **his** greatest disappointment is the tauk. It is silent, rather than cold like the puzzle, as though it ignores **him** , rather than retreated into itself.

"Bitch," **He** declares, knocking the tauk to the side, "You think you're better than me," **He** lunges off the bed, the pads of his feet scraping on the floor.

Stalking out into the hallways, **he** doesn't bother bringing the torch with **him**. The darkness is tame, and the firelight is a threat; **he** can see well enough in the dark, but an intruder will falter, and should one falter, **he** will find his way to wring their neck. Still, there are never intruders in this dark place. At best, there is clan, but they never venture far into  **Malik's** den.

"I know you're here," **He** declares into the waiting shadows. There's likely no one there, but if there is, **he** can be satisfied at chilling them to the bone.

Silence; **he's** almost angry about it.

 **He** paces twice through the tomb, scrubbing **his** nails on the stone walls, and only when **he** is satisfied that he is alone, does **he** return to **his** bed. They never come at night any more, but by day, the clan buzzes and circles at the entrance like  _flies_ by a camel's eyes. Now and then  **Malik** spits at them, but they don't come any nearer when **he** is in that mind.

Some days **he** wraps **his** cloak up to **his** throat, grins jackal-bright at them and follows them into the town. **He** may never have Malik's eye for planning, but **he** has four items, and an animal attention to detail. **He** can paint a scream on a wall, and when **he's** done, **his** clan licks praises at **his** feet. 

 **He** is so great, **he** is so strong, **he** has brought them freedom and wealth and power. Ishtar is not a name that is buried. It is sun-slaked on every wall. **He** lost Battle City, yes, but **he** has not lost since then. That is why the puzzle is left hollow in **his** bed. That is how **he** claimed the tauk. **He** , alone, is this great, and **his** clan never fails to tell **him** so.

But at night, **he** retreats to **his** birthplace, and when **he** sleeps, **he** is  _never_ alone.


	3. Halve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes non-consensual kissing.

Malik is licking blood from the inside curve of **Malik's** mouth. **He**  can feel Malik's tongue scrape the roof of **his** mouth, lick round **his** teeth, lap at the soft, delicate places inside **him**. Malik tastes like blood, but only because  **Malik** does. The weight of Malik in  **his** lap is heavy; pressing the air out of him in soft, steeping breaths.

 **He** presses **his** palms against Malik's shoulders, pushes up, pinches **his** nails into the skin. Pulls away, and pushes, and what cannot escape, curls up for battle. **His** lip - teeth bared - **his** fingers - tensing into claws.

"You can't make me clean," **His** voice, mangled with anger.

Malik has **him** by the throat, teasing under **his** jawline, until  **Malik** can't breathe through the tight rope of Malik's fingertips. He squeezes, strokes along the vein, thumbs the pulse point until it flurries, "I'm not trying to," Malik tells **him** , voice prim as the nails that have tightened on  **Malik's** throat, "I'll swallow you whole."

 **Malik** shoves harder against Malik, body tensing into a rigid curve, but all Malik does is watch **him** squirm. Finally,  **Malik** stills, gasping for breath around Malik's still fingers, "Fuck you,"  **He** hisses, voice crackling.

In answer, Malik drops against  **Malik's** again, teeth clacking as **Malik** thrashes, and snarls. It doesn't feel like a kiss; it feels like Malik is rinsing  **Malik's** mouth out with fire. **He** whines under Malik, eyes squeezing closed, breath choking down his throat - "Don't struggle," Malik tells him, running his tongue across  **Malik's** scoured lips.

"Don't touch me,"  **Malik** twists **his** face away, and Malik's fingers tighten like gold.

"How can I not?" Malik kisses the lids of  **Malik's** eyes, the bridge of **his** brow, at the apex of **his** jaw, across **his** clenched teeth, "I'm scratching under your skin," He drinks  **Malik's** whimper from **his** mouth. They seep into each other, like a pool of blood, and  **Malik** only wants to scrabble away. Like Malik's touch is staining  **him**. **  
**

"Please," **He** gasps, like a prayer.

Malik draws back, smiling with a gleaming, gold circlet of teeth, "You buried me," He murmurs, hands sliding up to cup  **Malik's** face, "In the dust of your flesh, in the earth of you-" Malik's voice ebbs, like a lover whispering in **his** ear. 

 **He** looks away, ashamed, "I can't stand poetry."

"I can't bear you," Malik answers, cool and cruel. He strokes  **Malik's** face as gently as ever, "You have killed me, and left me to rot inside you," He kissed  **Malik** again, teeth catching on  **Malik's** lips, until they split, and spill, and stain, "Do you feel me rot?"

"Leave me alone,"  **Malik** asks, voice soft and straining. It cracks, halves with helplessness, "I didn't mean to kill you," There is something scratching up the back of **his** throat, the taste of blood on **his** mouth, the feel of Malik's hands on  **his** face, "I swear, I didn't-" Malik's hand pushes under **his** chin, until they gaze at each other. Malik's eyes are radiant; dawn, and  **Malik** feels like dusk settling in **his** heart, "What do you want from me?"

Malik laughs, and the sound is metal - shining against  **him** , "I want you to hate me," The hand under **his** throat grips again, squeezing whines from  **him** , "Say it - say you hate me - say you hate me, and that's why I'm dead," The hand is unbearably tight, clawing angrily. **He** feels the blood leaking down **his** face, and--

 **He** wakes in his bed, heaving, trembling.

 **Malik** wraps his arms around  **himself** ; it feels as though **he** has cracked his ribs, and **his** insides have broken loose. Spilled out across the bed- **he** vomits in his mouth, and sobs in the dark. **His** body is a temple set alight, and **his** blood rocks like an ocean in **his** veins - and **he** is blasphemous, cursing Malik out, and drowning in **his** own reeking sweat.


End file.
